But every vole Has one small soul IF you kill just one, or seven Or ten, or more, There on the shore They'll wait for you, in heaven! And then, old friend, Ah, then, ah, then The scene it will be paining They'll name your sin, In their voices thin, While you do all the 'splainin'!!

'Sokay, Budd-y boy ol' pal, it was either poison 'em or shoot 'em, and my wife (and the cops) ojected to the use of firearms in the city limits (unless it's by the cops, or under certain restricted circumstances).

Well, the Great Game is over. The Idaho Legion Lejinears met the team from the Idaho Hospital for the Criminally Maladroit on the gridiron this afternoon. The start of the game was delayed until "Fingers" Rasmussen returned the quarter to the Referee so it could be flipped. Tradition was followed when the catch of the coin was missed and it was lost in the high grass of the field. An argument followed about who would kick off, so in the interests of peace and quiet both teams kicked off to each other at the same time.

This put both the offensive and defensive squads from both clubs on the field at the same time, which not only speeded things up considerably, but caused a certain amount of confusion as well. The confusion was exacerbated by the fact that both teams were wearing white uniforms, claiming that since both were from Idaho both were therefore "home teams" and enjoyed the "home field advantage."

Shortly after halftime, the Northside Pumas and the Eastside Fighting Moose soccer clubs arrived. It was discovered that they had also been booked to use what is called "The Stadium" and after some name calling and things the police SWAT team arranged it so that the soccer teams would play perpendicular to the (so-called) football teams.

Due to the clouds of tear gas and pepper spray is is difficult to say exactly who, if anyone, won anything. The paramedics, EMTs, and the riot squad from the local maxiumum security prison were in evidence as well.

As Slimtoes said, "Sheeeeeit, watta lousy game! No fractured skulls, not even a good old-fashioned stompin'. Kids today are soft, just a bunch of wussies. They break an leg or a collarbone and they run off to the medics. Sheeeeeeeit. Hey, you gotta cigarette maybe?"

Seems to me Lehrer's "Poisoning Pigeons in the Park" would be a suitable anthem about now. I don't feel like looking it up to cut and paste in here so I'll just sing it to myself as I sit at the computer and you can imagine that I typed it in.

Out in the wastes of the great desert called Gobi Wandered an old fart, Obi Wan Kanobi, Searching in vain for a good looking blonde Or redhead or brunette of whom he could be fond.

This is to be a poem that details the angst of youth, a "coming of age" poem such as were written by Sappo of Leggos and Hieronymus Bush (a distant ancestor of the current US President). As the beginning indicates it must be tender and innocent, and yet sophisticated and lecherous; bawdy but decorous, sad and yet humerus.

Please feel free to jump right in. I'll be happy to ascribe credit where credit is due.

Ya needs to learn a thing or two about scansion, senor. You can slur, blur or murmur, but ya still have to scan when you scam. It is shatteringly obvious you don't think of such things naturally or you would have written "of whom to be fond", instead of whom he could be fond, and"the desert called Gobi" in stead of the great desert called Gobi, because you would have sensed immediately that the scansion of these lines was catastrophic.

That's what my English Profs said. One of them said that I wrote poetry in "iambic catastrophometer" and another muttered something about "now we're paying for free verse" but he never gave me a cent. There was some move by the Modern Language Association to give me an award for my poetry, I think it was called "The Bootinarse" but I missed the ceremony because I was drinking with Johnny Milton, Al Pope, Junior Whitman, Tommy Eliot, Emmy Dickinson, and Bill Yeats.

Me auld granny gave me a wonderful line when I was growing up, for use on occasions like this one. She was from upstate New York, and she would look at you straight in the ye and twinkle a bit, and say, "Ayuh!! I heah ya talkin'!"

THe Librarian came down like a wolf on the fold, His Bermudas were lime-green, his smile was half-gold And he vowed that he'd see the whole acre de-Voled Where the green grass grows softly, in cold Idaho.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, The voles with their tails up at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, The voles on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the voles, as he passed; And the eyes of the critters grew deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And the poisonous smoke bombs lay destruction all wide, And the vole who inhaled it lost the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the First Vole, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the dirt on his nails: And the burrows were silent, the kits left alone, The nest cold and quiet, the warning unblown. And the Owner turned back to the house, all alone With his teeth of bright metal, and his heart of dull stone.

I spring to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I gallop'd, Dirck gallop'd, we gallop'd all three; We gallop'd and gallop'd and gallop'd all three; And gallop'd and gallop'd, 'twas quite easy to see We gallop'd and gallop'd and gallop'd 'thout water, And into the coinbox we dropped a new quarter.

Not a word to each other; not on speaking terms we Neck by neck, stride by stride (Joris stood up to pee). I turn'd in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shorten'd each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chain'd slacker the bit, And fell off of my horse like a bloody half-wit.

At Dundee up leap'd of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at our galloping bustle, No sheriff on our tail, and no cattle to rustle. With resolute shoulders, each butting a bump Those cattle just stood there, each dumb as a stump.

By Fort Worth, Dirck groan'd; and cried Joris "Stay spur! Your Roos gallop'd bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at lunch"—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretch'd neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shudder'd and sank.

So, we stopped and had lunch, Joris and I, Then past Taos and Dee-troit, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laugh'd a heartless "Ha ha!", While our feet slipped and slid in the equine ca-ca. Till over by Canberra a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "Vladisvostok's is in sight!

And all I remember is, cops flocking round As I sat with my pants 'neath my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this physique of mine, As I pour'd down my throat a few liters of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than my due, then they told me, "Get bent!"

Scholarship at the Horevard University's Megabib Library ("Earn Your Doctorate In The Time It Takes To Write A Check!") has demonstrated rather conclusively that the first stanza to Bubba Browning's famous poem "How They Brought The Great Pox From Ghent To Aix" should read like this

I spring to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I gallop'd, Dirck gallop'd, we gallop'd all three; To the top of the house, to the top of the wall, Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!

instead of the way Browning wrote it.

This is expected to cause controversy in academic circles, where at least three people care.

Mixing antimatter and matter usually has predictably violent consequences – the two annihilate one another in a fierce burst of energy.

But physicists in Geneva have found a new way to make the two combine, at least briefly, into a single substance. This exceptionally unstable stuff, made of protons and antiprotons, is called protonium.

Charged antimatter particles share the same mass as their normal-matter counterparts but bear the opposite charge. Both types of matter are thought to have been created in equal amounts in the big bang, but for reasons yet unknown, today there is much more matter than antimatter in the universe.

Still, some antimatter forms naturally in space in collisions between charged particles and limited amounts have been produced in labs. In a feat of "antichemistry", some of this man-made antimatter chemically combined with normal matter in an experiment at the CERN particle physics lab back in 2002 – but nobody realised it at the time.

PROTONIUM!! PROTONIUM!! Wow!!!

Finally an explanation for the matter-antimatter wave formations emanating from Idaho!!

Iambic pentameter, canine in style, Produces poor doggerel, surly and vile. But never a blessing, no Emmies, no Sophies Will go the poet who writes Cat-ass trophies. No laurel of wisdom, Platonic or Sapphic To he who writes verses that are all catastrophic.

Lo, praise of the prowess of people-kings of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped, we have heard, and what honor the athelings won! Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes, from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore, awing the earls. Since erst he lay friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him: for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve, till before him the folk, both far and near, who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate, gave him gifts: a good king he! To him an heir was afterward born, a son in his halls, whom heaven sent to favor the folk, feeling their woe that erst they had lacked an earl for leader so long a while; the Lord endowed him, the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.

Anyone can cut and paste the Lokasenna section of the old Icelandic Poetic Edda, Rapaire. Frigg 25. Your doings ye should never publish among men, what ye, Æsir twain, did in days of yore. Ever forgotten be men's former deeds! Loki 26. Be thou silent, Frigg! Thou art Fjörgyn's daughter, and ever hast been fond of men, since Ve and Vili, it is said, thou, Vidrir's wife, didst both to thy bosom take. Frigg 27. Know thou that if I had, in Ægir's halls, a son like Baldr, out thou shouldst not go from the Æsir's sons: thou should'st have been fiercely assailed. Loki 28. But wilt thou, Frigg! that of my wickedness I more recount? I am the cause that thou seest not Baldr riding to the halls. Freyja 29. Mad art thou, Loki! in recounting thy foul misdeeds. Frigg, I believe, knows all that happens, although she says it not.

The question is not whether you can trot out ancient BS maunderings from far Nordic climes, but maunder up some of your own from your own Nordic clime. I think you may be suffering from the first anticipatory traces of Seasonal Affect Disorder, kind sir. But I know you are MUCH more capable than some old Iceman.

In experiments conducted at the JINR U400 cyclotron between February and June 2005, the researchers observed atomic decay patterns, or chains, that establish the existence of element 118. In these decay chains, previously observed element 116 is produced via the alpha decay of element 118.

The particle begins to decay and eventually fissions. The results will be published in the October 2006 edition of the journal, Physical Review C.

The experiment produced three atoms of element 118 when calcium ions bombarded a californium target. The team then observed the alpha decay from element 118 to element 116 and then to element 114. The Livermore-Dubna team had created the same isotope of element 116 in earlier experiments.

This discovery brings the total to five new elements for the Livermore-Dubna collaboration (113, 114, 115, 116 and 118).

"The decay properties of all the isotopes that we have made so far paint the picture of a large, sort of flat Island of Stability and indicate that we may have luck if we try to go even heavier," said Ken Moody, Livermore's team leader.

The Island of Stability is a term from nuclear physics that describes the possibility of elements, which have particularly stable "magic numbers" of protons and neutrons. This would allow certain isotopes of some transuranic elements (elements with atomic numbers greater than 92) to be far more stable than others, and thus decay much more slowly. Element 118 is expected to be a noble gas that lies right below radon on the periodic table of elements. The world is made up of about 90 elements," Moody said. "Anything more you can learn about the periodic table is exciting. It can tell us why the world is here and what it is made of."

I am deeply impressed with the poetic wit of physicists who come with the names of quarks -- charm, luck, and so on -- and who make up names like "Island of Stability". It sounds like a grand place and I would like to visit there -- maybe even retire. The very thought gives me a hadron.

At JINR they had a dream To see some element never seen. Transuranics, like Californium, And plain old ordinary Calcium They slammed together, o'er and o'er (Like the forceful closing of a door) And behold! In the targer area there, Alpha decay was brought to bear: The clues all whispered, "Now you've done it! Stick another feather in your bonnet!"

And there was element one sixteen Followed soon by one eighteen -- But no one's seen one seventeen!

* imperfect rhyme, slant rhyme, half rhyme, approximate rhyme, near rhyme, off rhyme, oblique rhyme: These are all general terms referring to rhymes that are close but not exact: lap/shape, glorious/nefarious.

* eye rhyme: This refers to rhymes based on similarity of spelling rather than sound. Often these are highly conventional, and reflect historical changes in pronunciation: love/move/prove, why/envy.

* identical rhyme: A word rhymes with itself, as in Emily Dickinson's "Because I Could not Stop for Death":

We paused before a house that seemed A Swelling of the Ground-- The Roof was scarcely visible-- The Cornice--in the Ground.

But-oh! ye lords of ladies intellectual, Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you all?

Or rhyme in which one word is broken over the line end:

I caught this morning morning's minion, king- Dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing…

* linked rhyme: Rhyme that depends on completing the rhyme sound by enjambment over the line end:

* end rhyme, terminal rhyme: All rhymes occur at line ends--the standard procedure.

* initial rhyme, head rhyme: Alliteration or other rhymes at the beginning of a line.

* internal rhyme: Rhyme that occurs within a line or passage, whether randomly (as below, on "flow" and "grow") or in some kind of pattern:

A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow. These cherries grow, which none may buy Till "Cherry Ripe!" themselves do cry.

* leonine rhyme, medial rhyme: Rhyme that occurs at the caesura and line end within a single line--like a rhymed couplet printed as a single line:

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers

* caesural rhyme, interlaced rhyme: Rhymes that occur at the caesura and line end within a pair of lines--like an abab quatrain printed as two lines:

Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet the feet of the dove; But a goodlier gift is thine than foam of the grapes or love. Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and harp-string of gold, A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God to behold?

Or the following unusual example, an In Memoriam stanza (abba) printed as couplets: Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the tawny throat of her Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her pointed ears.

Now Amos, here's advice from Old Tom Hardy, Who was better at poesy that I'll ever be!

'Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be, There's brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world's not. And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past: The mischief is that 'twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I've lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. 'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul's stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all the springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white's their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.

Here's a fine return! One jibe, two lines, tossed cold Into the world have now a thousand-fold Returned! Such profit as I make Would take an honest broker years to take! But, though in volume no loss can we see, We'll strive to compensate with quality And with one couplet, send our colleague sculling Madly down time's stream, and madly culling, 'Til he sail back, and welcomed gladly, With reams of reference, copied madly, His boat awash and all his reams besodden, Unloading bales of verbiage, ill-gotten. This scourge of reference, true contrarian, Reveals the soul of this, our Own Librarian. But I am weary, and will offer Not one more couplet to swell up this coffer; And you, I pray, turn off your wit tyrannical, And cease these wasteful screeds Britannical!

I've been away--sorry to miss the poetic theoretic dialectic. . . my mudkitten Moonglow is in the hospital. They admitted her yesterday with severe anemia. They gave her a couple of units of blood, but in the way of hospitals, have taken most of it back piecemeal as they prepare to do tests. (One wonders how the tests look when they've so recently added new to her system?). Anyway, I'm NOT going to start a thread about this, I'm not calling any more attention to it than here, but I just wanted the MOAB family to know that while we've had a scare, we're working on this one. I slept at the hospital last night and her dad drove up to spell me for a while. She's in a hospital about 45 miles north of Fort Worth in Denton, where she attends the university (UNT). I'll head up again tonight, our son is going to stay at his dad's house because he can catch the school bus from there. We'll trade off between the places like this as long as we need to. We're not sure how long they'll keep her (the tests may take a couple of days and they said they may discharge her before they're all back). I have some research printouts to learn more about the types of anemia, and I'll hand this off to her dad this evening, so we'll both be in a better position to ask informed questions when needed.

I've been anemic and it's not fun, especially with the doctor I had. Barium milkshakes, endoscopies, colonoscopies...I thought that they should have done the last two at the same time ("Doctor! I see a light!")

They did a CAT scan yesterday (I could have saved some money by bringing up one of our cats to check her out, but they didn't want to wait. . .) and her spleen is working hard with the broken down blood corpuscles. I asked the tech today what tests they were doing and she read the names of a dozen or more--checking for specific vitamins and elements that might be too low or missing or too high.

She's cheerful enough, chatting happily with her boyfriend, who has been there a lot. I've felt obligated to remind him not to neglect the things he needs to do--classes, work, etc. and I went yesterday to pick him up when he got dinner for all of us (they admitted her after dinner and the kitchen was closed. That may have been a godsend. . .) He would have had to ride the bus back to the hospital. He's a very nice young man, also a student, planning to be an engineer.

I'm headed back up later this evening, and I'll try to take along something that is more interesting than the goofy cable tv they have in the room. Staring at the ceiling might qualify for that, but I'll take a board game or something. Cards.

Well, being an obedible, indeed an obedientiary, I shall forsake my current locus and the scazon of Amos for my own abode, and there I shall maffick the end of another day and another meeting of the Board of Trustees in the company of my gudwyfe.

Moonglow has got to stop busting up her red cells. See? It's simple. And since it's simple I'm sending telephathic messages to her bod to stop busting up red blood cells. This should work, because everyone tells me I'm simple.